I'll See You
by cloudstarmoonsky
Summary: Bela Talbot is left to suffer in perdition for all eternity. Luckily after some time, she builds up a resistance to the suffering, but it only gives her time to reflect on everything she's experienced while there... including some encounters with a certain Winchester boy. One shot. Warnings: Implied Torture, Mild Language.


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or the verse. I'm not making a profit on this. No copyright infringement intended.

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Bela was still there. She would always be there, and she knew it. She had lost count of the years eons ago, but it was her choice. Time no longer meant anything- no matter how many years passed, there was nothing she was approaching, nowhere she was going, so she chose to stop counting something that had no value. She'd been lying in the same place for what seemed like millennia.

By now, she had mostly become immune to the torture, though she had lost her thoughts. She didn't think anymore, which was a pity, because she had once had such a remarkable mind. No. Everything was hazy, feelings, premonitions, expectations, but no words. Ideas suggested themselves to her without language, now. She'd lost the words.

She felt it, when they tortured her, and it registered in her mind. Sometimes, she looked specifically at what they were doing. But she had become numb to it. It had emptied her of everything; for this she was grateful. The most excruciating pain could be borne, and was, because there was a deeper part that she had so long fought to conceal which was finally, mercifully, dead. It had been killed, and she'd watched it die, grateful even as it was happening. All her life she'd wanted nothing more than to stop caring, to be above the pain of the world, to be better than it. She was no longer superior, in the way she had once briefly been, and often dreamt of, but she was untouchable, and that was enough to satisfy her.

It had taken a long time for her to become that way. It was impossible to know how long, since she wasn't tracking time any longer (and had no hope of picking it up again now). If several eternities had passed, most of them had passed with her painfully vulnerable. Perhaps only the last eternity of the many had passed with her as solid and cold as stone.

Before that, she had been haunted. Haunted by every choice she'd made, every thing that had been done to her, every random event that had happened; every word her torturers spoke to her. (They didn't bother to speak to her anymore because words no longer had power over her- nothing did. For this reason she knew no one enjoyed torturing her any longer- it was a chore. They could not really touch her, and all concerned knew this. But there was nothing they could do with her. They had asked her many times if she'd like to become a torturer, a demon. She had never responded. They simply had no choice but to leave her as she was.)

She had been haunted, also, by him. His name was long since lost, but even she could still see his face in her mind. Every now and then she considered it disinterestedly, as a test to herself. It had been a very long time since it had elicited anything from her.

But only in this most recent eternity. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of eternities before this latest one, it had tormented her, almost more than any device used on her body. He had been used against her so many ways- apparitions had been conjured, experiences had been forcibly relived- even fantasies experienced, all the worse, because they were set up as perfection that could not be reached, that were cruelly ripped away at the most pleasant moment. The first moment back from such fantasies was like a re-experiencing of her first moment in hell, or even perhaps of her death- it had been like having her body ripped open, her soul ripped out and dragged across dimensions to its permanent resting place for a second time.

Even more painful than how he was used against her, was how she had thought of him involuntarily. Always she'd fought it, but there had been times when she had become too tired to fight any longer, times when they had broken her and left her open to such painful thoughts. Remembering his anger at her, remembering his sharp words, his accusations, his shaming, biting comments. He'd never known, never understood, and she had taken turns blaming herself, or him, for that fact.

Though she had forgotten practically every word they'd ever spoken to each other, she remembered the way the words felt. There was however, one sentence that had survived- "I'll see you in hell." It had stuck in her mind, practically branded itself on her.

She had seen him, not only as an apparition, but his true self. She remembered suddenly sensing his presence, hearing his cries in the din. She had even seen him, several times, from afar. Hanging in chains, or suspended by wires, all alone, or elsewhere, on tables or racks. They had never moved her, but they had often moved him.

They had not spoken. They had shared looks. There had been moments, where the two of them both felt the other's presence, and understood that Dean's last promise to her before her death had been made good on. There was no use in words, or trying any communication.

She was sure he'd gone the night after her, exactly 24 hours after her soul had been claimed. She'd calculated it on a whim once, and had clung to it, for the first few millennia. When at last he'd arrived, she'd noted dimly, now one day has passed on earth since I died. But it was only true for the first instant of his presence. After that, she had no more markers, after that, she'd given up counting. It was enough to know that for her, what seemed like thousands of years had passed in the span of a day.

When he had arrived, though she was glad to have one marker, it had pained her. He had still been a thorn in her side, and at times, when they were aware of each other, she felt the same was true for him.

There had been times, when she was at her weakest, that she'd longed to call to him, but he'd always been so far away. She'd always understood, anyway, that it was pointless, because any attempt would be cut short, and punished. She'd had to be content with the little she could get.

The other problem with his arrival was the new fear it brought. Would he break? Would they offer the same deal to him, to leave the table and take up the knife? Would he accept? Would he be sent to her? If he was, she was sure he'd be callous and sadistic as only he could be, was sure that there was no defense she could mount against him, was sure that he would break her permanently.

She'd often, at her worst, when she had been most consumed with anger and resentment at him, considered accepting the demons' offer, simply to beat Dean to it. To torture him before he could torture her. But the feelings passed. She'd done nothing.

She'd regretted it. At last, he had come to her. She had realized it, even in the haze of her own pain. At one moment, she had been aware of him, in the familiar way they had, with that understanding they'd cultivated. She had been carefully listening to his cries and shrieks, as she often did, and then suddenly they had stopped completely, and his presence was no longer felt.

She had understood without having to think about it, what it meant.

Then suddenly he had been there, beside her, standing over her. She'd looked into his eyes, and he'd looked into hers, and it seemed one further eternity had passed in that glance.

Then he had begun torturing her. Tormented himself, and reluctant at first, but over the centuries becoming more and more invigorated by it, more and more entertained and creative.

He had broken her in countless ways, in every way possible, it seemed. She had screamed and cried and howled and begged and pleaded and negotiated and nothing had stopped him.

The worst thing that he did, however, was not breaking her, but reconstructing her so he could break her again.

He'd been equally clever with that tactic, using coaxing words, unbinding her from her restraints, embracing her even- once even kissing her.

She'd always fought it, but he had relentlessly broken down her walls every time, over incomprehensible lengths of time, until at last she was _just_ able to believe that he would stop, that they would escape together, that he was sorry.

Then it would begin again, worse than the time before. Each time he seemed to gain a greater understanding of how to hurt her, and what to use. And however long it took him to build her back up, he doubled that in the time he used to break her down.

The cycle had been endless, and she had feared it would go on for all eternity. But one day he had simply left. Presumably found another victim.

After that, no one could touch her- only the memory of him could; all the memories of him, because they had still been clear then. Their time in the world of the living, and every second of their time in hell, together and apart, mixed in with her regret of not torturing him first.

She had asked then, if an exception could be made that allowed her to torture him, though he was technically no longer being punished. They had allowed it.

It had been the first thing she had enjoyed in millennia- it was only fair she return the favour for what he'd done to her. She'd made him plead, and beg, and negotiate, and cry and scream. She had been cold and heartless, completely Bela and not at all Abbie.

She had kept up banter with him. He had not returned it, but she treated it all as if it was a game to her, had thought of her most bitingly cruel remarks, used all the darkest sides of her wit; she had made herself impossible to reach, though he had tried, desperately, just as she had once tried to reach him.

She had devoted herself to this work, for an unknowable amount of time. Had devoted herself to getting into every part of his mind and ripping open wounds, and leaving them open. She'd done that with his body plenty, too. Shattering, and cutting off. It was his spiritual body though- it was indestructible, as hers was and it always reformed itself conveniently. No matter how much she hurt him, there was more pain she could give, deeper that she could cut. He was an endless well for pain, and no matter how deeply she drew the water, there was always a lower place.

It occurred to her that this torture between them became almost a need. It seemed there were times it was no longer torture- times that the pain was a gift he received without complaint, almost grateful. It had been strange. After awhile, it seemed to become more and more of that- he needed her to be cold and cruel because she had been for so long, he need her to give him pain because it was the only thing she could give him. It was the closest thing to kindness he could get in hell.

Gradually she found she needed to be that for him, needed it in the same way he did. It was impossible they could ever feel happy, could ever experience anything pleasant together (as they once might have), in the hell they both inhabited. The only thing they could share with each other was the pain, and the torture became their only routine, their one link. It became something no longer torture, became somehow, something mutual that they both needed. It became the only thing they could share, the only way they could communicate, somehow a fulfillment of the time before he'd tortured her. _I'll see you in hell_ , they would both think, would both feel the words as they stared into each others eyes while she cut into him, shattered him, plumbed the depths of his mind for places to exploit with something that was almost like caring in her heart- for the first time in eons. Caring because he needed it, and she needed to give it to him.

It had become so commonplace they had stopped thinking about it, had stopped considering it, had found it to be normal. The need was omnipresent. They both fell into it and chased it endlessly, accepting it as truth, as fact.

He had said thank you, more than once, simply with a look. She had returned it.

At last he had been ripped from her. The gates of hell had been thrown wide, and a figure of blazing light had entered. She had regarded it with disinterest, until the figure had thrown her aside, gathered Dean in his arms, and burst free of hell.

That had been too much. She had been thrown aside, denied escape, and Dean, who had become hers as she had become his, had been taken.

She had willingly returned to being tortured. It was the closest thing she could get to comfort, the closest she could come to rest. It had meant nothing to her- she could not torture anyone else because they would not be him. No one could cause her pain, because they were not him.

But now all that was done. She was empty, at last. And she would stay that way for the rest of eternity.


End file.
